Interest, Bias, Rut, Palate.
Int. My truest friend in Court, dead Mr. Bias;
You hear o' the recovery of our Niece
In fame and credit?
Bia. Yes, I have been with her,
And gratulated to her; but I am sorry
To find the Author o' the foul aspersion
Here i' your company, this insolent Doctor.
Int. You do mistake him: he is clear got off on't.
A gossipsjealousie first gave the hint.
He drives another away, now, as I would have him.
He's a rare Man, the Doctor, in his way.
H' has done the noblest cure here, i' the House,
On a poor Squire, my Sisters taylor, needle
That talk'd in's sleep; would walk to St. John's Wood,
And Waltham Forrest, scape by all the Ponds,
And Pits i' the way; run over two-inch Bridges;
With his Eyes fast, and i' the dead of night!
I'll ha' you better acquainted with him. Doctor,
Here is my dead, dead, dearest friend in Court,
Wise, powerful Mr. bias; pray you salute
Fach other, not as strangers, but true friends.
Rut. This is the Gentleman you brought to day,
A Suitor to your Niece?
Int. Yes.
Rut. You were
Agred, I heard; the Writings drawn between you?
Int. And seal'd.
Rut. What broke you off?
Int. This rumour of her?
Was it not Mr. Bias?
Bia. Which I find
Now false, and therefore come to make amends
I' the first place. I stand to the old conditions.
Rut. Faith give 'em him, Sir Moath, what e're they were.
You have a brave occasion now, to cross
The flanting Mr. Compa**, who pretends
Right to the Portion, by th' other Intail.
Int. And claims it. You do hear he's married?
Bia. We hear his Wife is run away from him,
Within: She is not to be found i' the House,
With all the Hue and Cry is made for her,
Through every Room; the Larders ha' been search'd,
The Bake-houses, and Boulting-tub, the Ovens,
Wash-house, and Brew-house, nay the very Fornace,
And yet she is not heard of.
Int. Be she ne'er heard of,
The safety of Great Britain lies not on't.
You are content with the ten thousand Pound,
Defalking the four hundred Garnish-money?
that's the condition here, afore the Doctor,
And your demand, friend Bias.
Bia. It is Sir Moath,
[Enter Palate.
Rut. Here comes the Parson then, shall make all sure.
Int. Go you with my friend Bias, Parson Palate,
Unto my Niece; a**ure them we are agreed.
Pal. And Mrs. Compa** too, is found within.
Int. Where was she hid?
Pal. In an old Bottle-house,
Where they scrap'd Trenchers; there her Mother had thrust her.
Rut. You shall have time, Sir, to triumph on him,
When this fine feat is done, and his Rud-Ironside.